


Yesterday's Footprints, Today's Sticky Note

by Be_Inspired



Series: Never The Same [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, 战狼 | Wolf Warriors (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crossover, Dad Rumlow, Everyone is SHIELD Agents, Gen, M/M, No Avengers, Twins Brock Rumlow & Big Daddy, no Hydra, son peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23275273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Inspired/pseuds/Be_Inspired
Summary: In comes Peter in red hoodie, but there is a wolf inside the too quiet house, wearing not sheep’s clothing but his father’s face. So Peter does what he had been thought to when something is threatening to undermine the very fabric of his life.He grabs the Glock 19 from under the sink and aims it at the wolf head.XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Commander of mercenary group called Dyon Corps, nickname ‘Big Daddy’, Brock’s twin brother and Peter’s uncle, whom he never knew existed, finally comes to visit. Now that he is in plain sight with unknown motive, Peter tries to understand the circumstances and walk around the house without stepping on anyone’s toe, be it his mysterious uncle or his tensed father. Easier said than done.
Relationships: Brock Rumlow & Big Daddy, James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, Peter Parker & Big Daddy, Peter Parker & Brock Rumlow
Series: Never The Same [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673725
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Yesterday's Footprints, Today's Sticky Note

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Playthings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201410) by [quillingyousoftly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly). 



> It's been almost a week of Movement Control Order in my country due to Covid-19, which will be going on until the end of month (I hope), so I'm using the time to pray for everyone's safety while catching up with my works here in AO3. Now back to this new project. For those who haven't watched 'Wolf Warriors 2', better do so to have better understanding on the character 'Big Daddy' i.e played by Frank Grillo. The movie is quiet good, in my opinion. Then again, since I don't have a clue on 'Big Daddy's real name, so I'll also be referring him as Dyon, which name I plucked from his Corp (Dyon Corps). This story is heavily related to my other projects (one which soon be introduced later), so do read them if you have the time.

* * *

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Off its own volition, Peter jerked his hand away from the doorknob and had it pressed to his unsteady heart in instant, as if it was compelled to do so.

Today, similar to yesterday, everything was pretty much the same. He left school at 3.35 pm, took his usual bus, followed his usual route, stopped by the grocery store to buy cereal and snacks and went straight home. There were a couple of mails in the box today, one bill and another was monthly subscribed magazine, so the teen collected them on his way to the elevator.

Yet, there was a sense of wrongness emanated from the other side of the door, of loaded unease that sent his senses all standing on their toes. A sudden liquid chill ran along his spine. Peter fought a shudder.

Slowly, the teen snuck his free hand into his pocket, feeling his phone. It was firm in his hand as if waiting, no, wanting for the sixteen year old for his next move.

But Peter didn’t make notion to make a call or leave the like his heart was telling him. It was as if his body betrayed his mind, betrayed his heart.

More than anything, his body wanted to respond to the foreboding that awaited him.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Five minutes later, Peter found himself sliding the window of his father’s bedroom from outside, which only an arm reach from the emergency staircase. Though locked from inside, the teen had no problem fiddling with the latch. It was quite loose after all. Getting himself to the emergency staircase was no hustle. All it took was a simple white lie to his neighbour about him forgetting the house key.

Deep breath, the boy stealthily climbed and manoeuvred his body into the room through the half opened window, his foot gave no sound as it landed on the carpeted floor, keeping his presence unknown. Leaving his stuffs—his bagpack and the grocery bag—outside made it easier for him to execute the movement without having anything tangling with everything.

Both his footfall and breathing were steady as Peter tip toed his way across his father’s room before halting by the door. Though slightly ajar, his field of view was highly compromised, but the teen knew better not to charge to the uncertainty like a young Galahad.

Instead, he listened for few moments while he held his breaths in his chest. Dead silence. Not a peep. Not a shuffle of fabric against something. Not a hush and shush of disturbing voices. There was nothing. The unbroken stillness for some reason was... frightening. More frightening than the sound of nails scrapping against the metal bed frame, more frightening than a knock of tree branches against his window in the middle of the night.

Against his overwhelming senses that screamed for him to flee, Peter delicately placed a small force to pull the door further apart, just enough for his lithe body to slip through.

One after another, his foot fell, his frame tracing along the hallway—the same familiar hallway that he had passed by thousands times before. Everything was intact. Peter recognized every single picture frame hung on the walls, every cranny and every stain on the floor. Everything was in place. This apartment, he has been living here for as long he could remember. It was home. But right now, as he walked, the hallways appeared darker than usual, too cold, to still as though every living thing in the building was holding their breath, not daring to move. With every step further, the air thickened that Peter felt his lungs had to work twice harder just to get enough oxygen into his system.

The apartment which he called home, felt sick and foreboding.

When Peter rounded the corner, he was confronted by his father at the other side of the wall in the living room.

“Oh, Gods!” This time too, off its own volition, his hand flew to his chest as if by not doing so, cardiac attack might come decades sooner than he would have preferred. “You almost gave a heart attack!”

Brock appeared to be startled as much as Peter did, if the jolt of his shoulders were any indication. “I could say the same thing.” He looked at the closed door behind him, then turned to the teen with a slight frown, pointing at it. “I didn’t hear the door.”

Peter could still hear the thrumming of his heartbeat as he paced across the living room. “I came in from the window.”

“The window?” Brock’s eyes followed the teen, watching with interest when Peter opened the front door, collected his stuff from the floor and went back in.

Taking another deep breath, the sixteen year old tried to calm his heart, nudging the door close behind him with his leg. “Yeah, the window in your room. I don’t know, it just that, it’s different.” Peter placed the mails on the coffee table while in front of the low cabinet housing souvenirs and framed pictures, his father stayed on his spot. One of the pictures was facing a different way than usual, as if Brock had lifted it up only to place it back.

Hand by his hips and head corked to the side, a speck of interest reflected in Brock’s brown eyes. Free of his usual STRIKE uniform—although Peter could barely call a black t-shirt and black tac pants a uniform—, his father had on his right now was something more casual. Dark jeans with v-neck t-shirt topped with a leather jacket.

‘Weird’, Peter would later remember this feeling. This was after all, the first time he has ever seen that jacket.

“What do you mean different?” Brock asked, eyes fixated on the teen who slowly stood up, his steps were lazy as Peter paced across the living room.

Stopping in front of the STRIKE team leader, Peter shrugged softly. “Something feels different inside. I felt it just now when I was in front of the door. That’s why I—I just had to see.” His voice came out barely above whisper as if he was talking to himself, before the teen quickly shook his head and smiled, dismissing it. “It’s stupid. It’s probably nothing.”

“Even so, if you feel something is wrong, you shouldn’t come inside like that.” Brock placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave few soft pats. It was reassuring at any other given time. Familiar, warm and Peter has always fond of physical contact.

But this—it didn’t feel like that. The brief contact has evoked something inside Peter—a sense of fear, a sense of apprehension. Almost instantly, all of his senses were back on their toes and his heart lurched inside his chest, the hair at the back of his neck stood still. For the first time in his life, his father’s presence was cold, it was at a place where Peter couldn’t reach. But the man was real in front of him, all flesh and blood and brutally honest with his smile.

For the first time in his life, Peter didn’t feel safe in father’s presence.

“Yeah, I know.” _He knows that now_ , Peter thought to himself as he took a step back, turned and continued his way to the kitchen before dumping the rest of his stuff on the counter. As he unloaded the groceries—two cereal boxes, potato chips and a couple of chocolate bars—, the teen swallowed the dry lump in his throat. There was a shuffle, his father has followed him to the kitchen and now closing in.

“You are early today.” Peter found his voice was light in his ears and despite the inner turmoil raging inside him, his hand didn’t as much shake while he swiftly placed the cereals inside the top cabinet. Giving Brock his back wasn’t a smart decision, but the teen knew he was still beyond an arm reach from the man.

A step closer. “Work finished early.” A small crinkling noise followed after when Brock nudged the chips around. “Isn’t these too many?”

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Brock nodded at the snacks on the counter. Looking over his shoulder needs to become second nature, so Ms. Romanoff told him. Thing was, Peter would have never thought he would do such natural thing so much sooner, much less in the presence of his own father.

“It’s for Mr. Barnes. I always eat his snacks, I feel bad about it.” Turning back, Peter flashed a smile before closing the cabinet door.

Behind him, as he turned on the tap water to wash his hands, Peter heard the man snorted in amusement. He watched for a moment as water flow from the tap and plunged his hand into it. It didn’t as much resist it, only caressing his fingers as it cascaded down and swirled about the flat surface. There was no voice, but a presence that the teen couldn’t quite grasp before it disappeared further down into the kitchen sink drain.

The water felt cold.

“Do we still have the cleaner?” Unblinking, Peter asked.

“Hmm..? I’m not sure. Why?”

His lips pursed a sigh. “It’s clogged again.”

Turning the faucet, Peter then kneeled down and opened the lower cabinet under the sink.

In one swift uninterrupted movement, the teen then stood up and turned, a gun now clasped firmly in his hand—the one hidden under the sink—, first finger rested comfortable against the trigger. He aimed it at Brock’s head.

Then and there, except for his father in front of him, everything else was muted, bland and monochrome. Every colour faded and every noise dissipated in absolute stillness. There was no movement. He could barely hear himself breathing. It was as if he was watching the scene before him through a camera lens where his line of vision was zoomed all the way and focused solely on Brock.

Nothing else mattered.

From where he stood, Peter saw the man stilled, his eyes lingered on the gun, then his eyes clicked back on Peter.

“Do you know what you have there in your hand?”

Eyes trained on Brock, the teen answered, “It’s a gun.”

“It’s Glock 19 you’ve got there, son.” His hands were no longer rested by his side, now pulled up in surrendering motion. “Meaning no manual safety. If you pull that that trigger, you’re going to shoot someone.”

With his arm extended like this, the teen could see the gun, his hand and down to his fingers. None of them were shaking. They weren’t exactly stiff, they were simply… relaxed. Like it was a natural thing to hold a gun and point it on his father.

Slowly, he traced his gaze along Brock’s form—from bottom to top—, it eventually landed on the man’s brown eyes. The same brown hue that he has been seeing for the last sixteen years of his life, dusted with specks of amber. They have always provided warmth and protection that he needed, to keep him from any elements of danger and felt loved. But Peter didn’t like what he was seeing. Something that was akin to ill-omened which the teen felt when he was standing outside, the teen now know that it came from this man.

“I know. That’s why I want you to leave.” Peter said, throat tight. “You look like my father, you sound like him, but I,” By now his voice was above whisper. “I don’t know you.”

“Are you going to shoot me, then?”

“Please leave.” Voice pleading, Peter gnawed the inside of his cheek. “I really don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t believe you’re going to pull that trigger.” Face blank, Brock now had his hands by his side. “You’re too kind for that.”

For a moment, Peter felt every fibre of his being stilled. The orbit of his consciousness including his line of vision however, was flaring out, passing his father’s form, passing the living room. He was observing everything, listening to everything, noticing every little change inside the apartment.

Very faintly, there was a slight disturb of air, but no footsteps ringing in the area.

“You’re right. I won’t” The teen breathed out, his hold on the gun still hasn’t faltered. “But he will.”

Brock’s eyes widened.

And there was a ‘click’.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The slight apprehension didn’t linger long because after two three breathing cycles, Brock’s expression softened. “Not many can sneak up on me. I’ve got to give it to you.”

From his father, Peter eyes went as far as behind the man, which eventually landed on Bucky, the gun in his hand aimed the back of Brock’s head. A good two feet separated in between the gun and the man.

“If this makes you feel any better, I did my best not to be noticed.” Bucky’s voice was low with a promise of hurt. The man was still in his SHIELD uniform. “Are you alright, Peter?”

The familiarity made the teen almost burst into tears. Whirlwind of emotions were coiling inside—fear, apprehension, confusion, relief were just among others—, all fighting for superiority. For now, Peter could only nod.

“Come here.” Bucky said, not even a millimetre did he avert his eyes from his target.

Peter didn’t even need to be coaxed to move. He planned his steps in way he would exit the kitchen but still maintaining his distance from Brock. Once he reached Bucky, the teen whispered, “James, something—”

Quickly, Bucky shushed him and beckoned for the door. “Stay at my place for a while, Pete.”

“But—”

“It’s fine. Rumanoff is there. Stay with her.” The man said and breathed slowly. His voice was low, but Peter had no doubt that Brock was listening to their conversation, even with his back facing them. “We already swept the building. There’s no one else. Even if there is, they’ll be sorry to meet Steve.”

Heart palpated, Peter looked at the agent. He was still Bucky, but the air he was permeating wasn’t Bucky at all. There was an air of dangerous, it was reflected by his blue eyes. There weren’t as clear and bright as the teen would have preferred. Today, right now, they were slightly dull, dilated, cold and distant from Peter. It actually sent shiver to his form.

In front of him was the Winter Soldier. Peter has heard from Natasha about him and the stories while he was still in STRIKE team. The man could be a ghost and an efficient agent when situation required. He just didn’t expect he would actually meet him in person under undesirable circumstances.

With a small nod, Peter quickly left the apartment in haste.

Bucky never asked him to leave the gun.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Behind him, the door clicked shut and Bucky exhaled, in deliberate slowness, then walked backward by few steps.

“Turn around.”

The man did as he was told and when he did, when his features finally registered fully into his vision, the agent felt his heart clenched. Brock Rumlow yet not Brock Rumlow stood in the kitchen. His brain wasn’t given enough time to process and kick around the ball and bats.

Despite the new revelation, Bucky maintained his composure, only alerted slightly when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Using his free hand, the SHIELD agent grabbed the phone, swiped his finger across the screen and held it close to his ear. He didn’t have to see the caller to know who was at the end of the line.

“James?” He heard the voice in the speaker. Brock was still standing in front of him, yet the voice at the other end of the line clearly belonged to Brock himself.

Had he born with two million lesser brain cells than what he had at the moment, Bucky would have considered that he had gone mad. Or at least the possibility of Doppelganger.

“Hey, Brock.” Bucky heard himself. “You know, when you told me to come home and that something was coming, why didn’t you tell me that ‘something’ is your twin brother? And Peter’s fine. He’s with Natasha right now.”

The twin Brock appeared slightly debauched after hearing Bucky’s words, if the gleam in his eyes were any indication, now crossing his arms across his chest as he leaned his back against the counter. That definitely didn’t take long for the snake to finally make an appearance.

A sigh. He sounded tired which was fully justified considering the man has just returned from his mission and now probably driving beyond speed limit. “Sorry. I—anyway, I’m on my way.”

“We’re going to have a very long pillow talk after this.” Bucky said.

Brock only chuckled before cutting the line.

Bucky slipped the phone back into his pocket before taking a seat on the couch armrest. So little information, so little time. At the time being however, the agent was comfortable in keeping twin Brock at a safe distance.

“Can I sit down?” Twin Brock nodded at the dining table. It was very disturbing, in Bucky’s mind, to see someone whose appearance and voice matched Brock entirely and yet, not Brock. Look closely, the agent did notice his hair was trimmed shorter and both side and at the back while maintaining enough hair at the top to be styled. Disturbingly enough, even the style was similar to Brock’s.

His chest rose and fell with every slow cycle of respiration he made. “If you want to.” Bucky’s eyes followed the man as he stride towards the dining table, pulled a chair out and sat down, legs spread while facing him. _Cocky asshole_.

“Do you have a name?” When his question was met with a steel cold gaze and an eerie silence, the yet unknown man continued, “I’m Big Daddy. That’s what they call—”

“I don’t care.” Bucky simply cut through, gun still aimed at the man, finger rested against the trigger. There was simply so little—almost none—information on the man who called himself ‘Big Daddy’ and to which post his capacity was attached to, the agent felt the very need on his side to stay vigilant.

One thing he was certain off, it wasn’t any lesser than Brock’s.

Big Daddy faked a hurt expression. “Rude.”

“Rude? No.” Corking his head to the side, Bucky eyed the man lazily. “Breaking into someone’s house uninvited and frightening a sixteen year old boy, that’s rude. And shameless.”

An amusement slithered across his features as Big Daddy leaned back and crossed his legs on top of each other. “So you and my brother..?” He prompted. “Together..?”

Again, he was met with dead silence from Bucky’s part. Clearly the man was a chatterbox who refused to understand the concept of awkward silence because before long, Big Daddy sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to make a conversation here.”

His conversation apparently, wasn’t going anywhere towards the direction he wanted when the front door was opened and filling the doorway, was Brock Rumlow.

The man did a quick scan across his apartment, his eyes lingered on Big Daddy two seconds longer, before closing the door behind him and tossing his keys into the small bowl on the cabinet. His strides were calm, unhurried, as if he owned the place. Well, in Biblical sense, Brock did own the apartment.

“Hey.” He greeted Bucky, placing his hand on his shoulder as he stood next to the agent.

Every fibre in his being wanted to squeeze the hand, but Bucky held them down. Instead, he only responded with, “Welcome back.”

“Can you stay with Peter? I need to talk to him.”

There was an overwhelming reluctance to leave his lover alone with Big Daddy, but there was also understanding.

“Sure.” Bucky nodded. From how calm Brock appeared at the moment, Bucky forced himself to believe their conversation would be civil and brother-like. And Big Daddy didn’t appear to be armed and the agent doubted the man’s lack of intelligence to do something, well, criminal-like knowing that there were not one or two, but three SHIELD top agents including STRIKE team leader within the building. Just next door to be precise.

Bucky tucked his gun back into the holster, gave Brock’s hand a slight squeeze before heading for the door. A tired sigh resounded behind him just before the agent closed it.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

There was a nice amount of tension fluttering in between them when Brock pulled the chair and sat down in front of Big Daddy.

“What are you doing here?” Straight to point, Brock saw no purpose in beating around the bush. “I remember telling you not to come near me ever again.”

Big Daddy opened his mouth only to close it back again and sighed as he dropped his hands on his laps. “I’ve came to visit you.” A short pause. “And my nephew. The one you’ve been hiding for sixteen years.”

Back leaned against the chair, Brock tilted his head, eyes challenging. “I don’t owe you any update of my life. Besides,” With a shrugged, the STRIKE team leader tapped the table with his fingers. “You’ve never came for a visit before. How am I supposed to tell?”

“Fine, point taken.” Big Daddy then shifted his gaze towards the cabinet behind Brock before settling them on collection of framed pictures. “You could at least tell you son about me. It’s like I don’t even exist.” Rubbing his days old stubs, the mercenary the man than sighed. “Are you embarrassed of me or something?”

Jaw hardened, Brock felt his anger started to build up from the pit of his stomach. “You know why.”

“Jesus, Brock!” Big Daddy exclaimed and threw his arms out. “That was seventeen years ago! I apologized, didn’t I?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and repeated, “I apologized. Can’t we both just move on from that point?”

There was a moment of silence when Brock pinned his gaze on his brother, finding sincerity in his eyes. The man in front of him appeared agitated, even more than the last time they saw each other. Fatigue clung on him like a shadow, most probably due to his profession or a simple jet lag. Brock wouldn’t know. His brother’s contract was all over the globe. Last time he checked—Brock did check once in while using SHIELD surveillance—, his contract was in Africa, aiding rebels to overrun the current monarch.

The silence was broken when front door was opened. There was a telltale of hesitation, a slight linger. One second. Two seconds. Then he, Peter, entered.

He looked confused, clearly and distressed with the whole enchilada. When they locked their gaze and Brock saw the barely there, thin mist covering his son’s brown eyes, guilt slowly began to bleed out, replacing the smouldering anger. There was still hesitation in his pace, in how his shoulders tensed forward when he crossed the room.

“Peter.” Brock beckoned for the sixteen year old to get closer. “Your Uncle Dyon is going to stay for dinner.” Through the corner of his eyes, he saw a knowing smirk splitting Big Daddy’s face into half. Before the other could say anything, Brock was faster to block his remark from even made an appearance. “I’m not going to let him call you ‘Big Daddy.” He said with a slight roll of his eyes. “It’s disgusting. I don’t know how other people could call you that.”

“They open their mouth.” Big Daddy said a matter of factly.

The STRIKE team leader fought the urge to flip him off, but file it down for Peter’s sake. He noticed how unfocused the teen’s eyes at the moment, clearly spooked out of his mind. The last time he saw Peter this frightened was nine years ago when Rollins had played prank on him. It went out of control. His second in command—not yet second in command at that time—had apologized and grovel all over the floor when Brock had the look like he was about to release a biological weapon inside SHIELD headquarters.

“You have homework?”

Peter only nodded, keeping his eyes away from Big Daddy’s open stare.

“Alright. Why don’t you get them done while I prepare dinner?” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder softly and felt the tense muscles melted under his touch.

“You’re tired.” The teen easily pointed out. “We can order take out..?”

A small smile brightened Brock’s face slightly, calming the jumping nerve in Peter’s body further. “It’s fine. I can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Okay...” Peter’s eyes were everywhere but on his uncle.

Brock just sat there by the dining table, eyes on the table listening to Peter collecting his school bag from the kitchen before the teen shuffled into his room. His brother remained silent as well, keeping his stare on the invisible dirt on the wall. It was rare to for him to remain chatter-free for more than five minutes, given that the man since their childhood years, always had at least two thousand words more to say than Brock every day. As a family, Brock tolerated. But to some people, it created friction especially when those words weren’t as subtle or kind.

“If you’re not selling anything,” With his hands on the chair as leverage, Brock pushed himself up. “Table will be set for three. If you want to smoke, go to the veranda.” The STRIKE team leader pointed at the veranda, aware of his brother’s smoking habit, despite the lack of smell at the moment.

His equal brown eyes followed Brock’s retreating form, all the way to the kitchen. “Need help?”

“No.”

He didn’t mean to make it sound dismissing, but Brock needed the space, just enough to calm his nerve. Retreating into his room would make him appear less than adult, more like a child trying to hide his problem. The kitchen, well, at least there’s food and he could keep his hand busy and hopefully, it would allow the tension from the days long mission in addition with the one sitting in the living room to slowly drain out.

Anyone’s temper tended to get hyper and less smart when they’re hungry. At least, Brock’s is.

The muscles made a slight pop when Broke peeled off his tactical vest and holsters. He didn’t bother taking them off since the second the plane touched down, the STRIKE team leader was seen sprinting to the exit before making his way to the parking lot, fatigue and bruise forgotten. He had to get to Peter, he just knew he had to.

Brock didn’t look where he was putting his equipment as long it landed on a flat surface. In some way, it landed on the counter with a loud clatter. His legs carried him to the sink and the man turned the faucet to let the tap water to run freely, before his leg bumped against the door of the lower cabinet. It was dark, but the illumination provided from light streaming from outside was enough for him to see everything inside.

The Glock was missing. Brock knew his brother didn’t have any weapon with him.

In instant, he was propelled by the strength of a thousand guilt complexity.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The last one hour was the least productive moment of his life. Staring at the lines written on his paper, the completion progress of his homework, sufficient to say, was less than five percent in total. Granted, he had finished all the assignment meant to be submitted tomorrow during today’s lunch break. They were easy. It didn’t require much effort from Peter’s part. The rest—which he has been trying to finish but been failing to do so—had much further deadlines set.

Peter dropped his pen, slumped back against the chair and sighed, before running his hand over his face. This wasn’t going anywhere. Even after he did yoga breathing technique and jumping jack to get his focus back on his homework. Each time he sat down, his mind would travel beyond the closed door, particularly towards the direction of the peculiarity sitting at the dining table. The teen wasn’t really thinking anything specific, he was just... bothered by everything. His uncle, his father, their relationship, the tension and the list just went on.

And he’s hungry. Peter usually ate some snacks before dinner and Brock allowed him even when it was already close to meal time. There was something about his raging metabolism nowadays, started about a year ago to be exact. Physically, nothing was amiss. They had gone for medical check up when his father noticed the sudden spike in his metabolising activity. But the doctor couldn’t find anything out of ordinary. Be it hyperthyroidism or hypoglycemia. He was a growing teenager, so the doctor told Brock.

Another sigh reverberated inside the room. He could chose to stay inside, staring the words until they have gone blurry or he could just paddle his way out and well, just meet everything in his path.

Peter chose the latter.

His uncle was still seating at the dining table—Peter refused to acknowledge that he skipped few steps on his way to the kitchen—while Brock was still working on dinner when the teen entered the kitchen. His eyes lingered a bit on the tactical gear resting on the counter before settling his gaze on his father’s form.

“Need help?”

“It’s fine. It won’t be long.” Brock mumbled as he poked and prodded the steak in the skillet. It would be sliced steak for dinner tonight with vegetables that were still roasting in the oven. Peter could smell the herbs, the parsnips and the tomatoes coming from the oven and the seasoned steak. His tummy gurgled involuntarily. _Traitor_.

“Peter?”

“Hmm..?” The teen inched closer to the stove and later decided it wasn’t really a bright idea since he was hungry and the sight of the steak wasn’t really helping his cause.

“Go ask your uncle if he wants something to drink.”

Peter must have had that look like Brock had just informed him that he was going to send him to participate a gladiator tournament.

“Oh. Okay.” Peter quickly moved when Brock raised his eyebrow.

His heart quickened when his uncle was back into his vision and Peter sure hoped his father didn’t saw him peeking at the corner like a frightened gerbil.

“Uncle Dyon..?” It was hard to call the man who shared his father’s look with something else but Peter braved it anyhow.

The man, who has been staring into nothingness hasn’t realized Peter’s presence until the teen called him. He responded by focusing his attention on Peter with a curious hum.

“Do you want something to drink first?”

“I take it whiskey is not on the menu?”

Taken back, Peter blinked. “Uhh…”

“I’m joking, Peter.” His voice was light with mirth which made the teen self consciousness intensified tenfold. “Anything cold is fine.”

A glass of orange juice ended up in front of Bid Daddy a minute later. The man only grinned at the teen’s simplicity as he picked the glass and brought it close to his lips while Peter stood few feet away, fidgeting, but not really wanting to leave. He only drank half of the content before placing the glass back on the table with a small ‘clack’.

“Come closer, nephew.” Big Daddy patted the surface of the table, then nodded at the chair in front of him. “Let me have a good look at you.”

The chair tumbled a bit when Peter pulled it a fraction too quickly. He quickly balanced it back and took a seat, eyes slowly rising to meet his uncle’s open stare. For a good ten seconds, no palpable words exchanged in between them. The man didn’t even blink, merely drinking the sight, taking in every detail of the teen’s features.

“Sorry about breaking into the house, by the way.” He suddenly spoke, startling the younger on his seat. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” Big Daddy added as he rested his elbow on the table.

Still off balanced, Peter only nodded. “It’s okay. I,” The teen gnawed on his lower lips for a moment, fingers intertwining against each other beneath the table. “I’m sorry too. For pointing the gun at you.”

Big Daddy waved his hand dismissively. “It’s alright, kid. I’m used to having people pointing their guns at me.”

Peter wouldn’t know on how to respond to that.

“How old are you?” Big Daddy asked after taking another sip of his juice.

The teen thought that his uncle had already figured it out by now, but decided to humor the man. “Sixteen.”

Nodding, the man cleared his throat. “Sixteen. Good, good, good. How’s school?”

“It’s alright.” Peter shrugged. By now, his fingers were no longer interlocking, although he still thumbing the edge of the table out of habit.

“Are you in any club?”

“Math club.” He quickly said. The tremor inside where still there but now in smaller magnitude, enough for Peter to speak without an obvious shake in his voice. “I’m not really good with sport.”

The juice inside sloshed slightly when Big Daddy moved the glass around the table. The man gave a thoughtful look. “We can’t be good with everything.” His finger then traced the rim of the glass. “Speaking of which, I uh, went and took few looks inside your room.” He pointed at the direction of Peter’s room behind the teen. “There’re few interesting retro techs you’ve got there. Did you buy them online?”

“No, that’s actually,” Peter sucked on his lowed lips, his mind travelled to disc camera and microcontrollers he’s been working on. He’s in middle of combining the old school kit computer with the ability to interface with modern LCD modules, servos and digital sensors. With it, Peter hoped to create something, well, out of something. “People sometimes threw good things. I collect them and try to make something out. I’m trying to build a retro type of microcomputer that can be used to create standalone devices without having to learn a new programming environment. I think.” 

Awe flashed across the Big Daddy’s face. “That’s amazing, kid. You know, there’s a guy in my team that loves this kind of techno stuffs. Old, new, as long it’s techno, he’d be crazy about it. Everybody calls him Roach.”

“Oh, cool.” Really, the teen didn’t know how to speak any less awkward.

“Peter.”

Faster than any possible moment, Peter turned towards the kitchen. His father pointed at the direction behind him. “Help me get these to the table.”

Saved by his father. The teen breathed a relief sigh. Any more of this, he felt he could just pass out from the stress.

This time, Big Daddy didn’t offer any help, knowing it would only be turned down by his brother. Instead, he only watched, as Peter placed the plate of sliced steak and oven cooked vegetables in front of him before arranging the utensils, napkins and tall glasses next. His father had changed his clothes before he joined them at the table, taking the seat opposite of Big Daddy.

Peter had hoped that Bucky would join them for dinner like he always does. But after five minutes has lapsed and still no telltale sign of the agent, the teen casted aside the childish hope.

“How long are you going to be around?” Brock murmured around the lip of his glass.

Big Daddy left the question unattended while he chewed on his meat. The steak was cooked well done, as oppose of what Brock and him would usually have. It was good, still, with the seasoned vegetables and all.

“Few days.” He finally answered after making a brief swallow, his eyes slightly lingered on the glass in Brock’s hand. If there was anything else he has observed so far was the lack of beer inside the house. Or whiskey. Or any alcoholic drink on that matter. His brother always has beer with his steak. Always.

But dare he say that the sixteen years of separation has somehow changed Brock’s diet..?

If his counterpart knew what loitering in his mind, he sure didn’t show it.

“There’s a guess room. If you want to use it, I’ll get it sorted after dinner.” Brock said calmly.

So casual. So familial in front of a hearty meal.

Their last few encounters had ended up explosive. Big Daddy didn’t expect any less this time. So as he sat there and realized that they have yet to exchange bullets, or at least fists, the man was actually… surprised. No doubt Brock was still deadly if circumstances required, but in a sense, the man has gone, should he say, mellow.

Right now, Big Daddy felt like he was being domestically trained. The type of training that he wasn’t ready for.

Still, the mercenary was a fast learning student who could adapt and improvise. “Sure.”

Next to him, Peter went eerie quite while the teen entertained his food. He was tense, and has gotten much tenser at the knowledge that he his uncle would be a temporary resident in their house. Too tense in fact, that his pallets failed to register and enjoy tonight’s meal, mouth and hands moved only to serve the purpose of sating his hunger. The teen didn’t hate the idea. But he wasn’t thrilled nor amused at the moment.

Throughout the meal, nobody poked or prodded the huge elephant curled at the corner.

**\--To be Continued--**

**Author's Note:**

> For those who lives in a country which is under lockdown/MCO, please follow the instructions carefully and diligently i.e to stay home and only go out when necessary to stop the spreading of the virus. Stop being selfish and complete d**k, going out unnecessarily just so you could contract the virus and bring it home to your family. Nobody cares if you don't want to value your life anymore but think of your loved ones. Not everyone is lucky enough to fully recover. Let us all pray for the safety of everyone around us and let us again pray so we could overcome this. Remember to wash your hands regularly dear readers.


End file.
